


The Art of Anchoring

by btBatt



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, Protective Steve Rogers, sensory processing disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-26 16:03:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9910418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/btBatt/pseuds/btBatt
Summary: It wasn’t that he disliked the other Avengers. Far from it. In fact, he’d never been so close to people in his life. It was just…people were tiring and loud and always all over the place, all the time. He didn’t get to go home at the end of the day anymore and take off his masks because there was always someone around.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Based in some post-civil war universe where all the hard work of getting the gang back together has already been done and the hard conversations have already been had.

"Come on, Tony,” Steve said, all disappointed, and fuck that, honestly. Tony was being a responsible human being. Someone was always going to be disappointed: Pepper if he was slacking, Steve if he was overworking, and to be frank, Pepper was scarier.

“I’ve got work to do,” he said, except he wasn’t doing that work anymore because Steve was in his workshop and FRIDAY had turned the music down for his sensitive super hearing, and there was the fabrication unit in the corner that was making this god-awful grinding noise he could suddenly hear because of the lack of music and— “Fri? Halt the new gauntlets for a sec, will ya?”

“Yes, boss,” she said, and the noise stopped. Tony hummed his acknowledgement.

“You can work upstairs,” Steve said. “It’s team night.”

“Okay,” Tony said, “I know, but I’m in the middle of this—”

“We promised to make more of an effort—”

“—and I can come up when I’m done—”

“—to be a team and a united front—”

“—you know we’re not really their parents—”

“—Tony, please—”

“—fine!” Tony shouted. Steve smiled wide.

“You can even bring a tablet.”

“So sweet of you,” Tony said and didn’t bother telling Steve it really wasn’t necessary. Steve grabbed one and herded Tony into the elevator ahead of him.

“FRIDAY,” Tony said as the elevator door slid closed, “start up the fab-u again?”

“Done.”

The elevator car vibrated slightly around them, just the hum of machinery. Nothing, really. It had maybe been too long since Tony last slept, and he was on edge. Too many deadlines, too much pressure, too much everything. He felt raw and exposed, like an eyeball without a lid. The ding as they reached the common floor was grating, and Tony sucked in a slightly desperate breath before he had to step into the living room.

It wasn’t that he disliked the other Avengers. Far from it. In fact, he’d never been so close to people in his life. It was just…people were tiring and loud and always all over the place, all the time. He didn’t get to go home at the end of the day anymore and take off his masks because there was always someone around. The lab’s always been a safe place, and after the rogues came back from Wakanda, none of them were allowed in for a good two months until something sparked wrong in a materials test and Tony got knocked into a wall and passed out. Natasha had had to break in, which had taken about five minutes, while Tony had bled from his head onto the floor. After that incident, Tony had given emergency overrides back to Nat and Steve.

Except they hadn’t quite grasped what “emergency” meant, though. Steve kept breaking in, sometimes to drag Tony upstairs for bonding time, sometimes to make sure he was taking care of himself, sometimes just to sit quietly while Tony worked. Tony had stopped being so suspicious of it (especially since all the dragging Steve had been doing was more metaphorical than physical) and had mostly accepted it as guilt-driven care on Steve’s part, but that didn’t mean he liked it.

True to form, the common floor was a dance of people and light and noise. Tony strode in and sat in a corner of the couch, next to Vision.

“Good of you to join us,” Sam said. It sounded like he was teasing, but Tony’s opinion of the man had improved greatly when he’d realized that was just how Sam sounded most of the time. Even now, Tony checked, and his smile was genuine enough. He and Bucky were both in chairs, a Backgammon board on a coffee table between them. Bucky was pouting, and even as fuzzy as Tony felt, the game made his chest ache faintly, distantly, just enough to be annoying, another static-filled cluster of nerves.

“Well,” he said, flashing a smile, “since Rogers asked oh-so nicely…”

“Hey,” Steve said, and the shit actually looked slightly hurt. “I asked nicely.”

“You declared,” Tony said. “Petulantly.”

“Sounds about right,” Bucky said, breaking his pout to smirk sympathetically at Tony.

“Oh, don’t give me that,” Tony laughed. He actually liked Bucky, it turned out. And all of that murderous rage Tony felt in Siberia washed away when Steve wasn’t talking in his ear about how innocent his friend was. “He probably learned that from you, back in the day.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bucky said, straight faced. Tony shared a look with Sam.

And that was good, positive social interaction. Steve looked proud and relieved in that strange way he did sometimes these days and Tony could feel the knot of stress loosening around his entire being until Wanda and Clint came in.

“We made Indian food!” Clint crowed, and Tony grimaced.

“We’re right here,” he said slowly. Tony was almost afraid someone was going to call him out for being rude, but Sam looked just as put out by it.

“Yeah, man, this is a living room, not a barnyard. Cool it.”

“Whatever,” Clint said. “You don’t get any food.”  
 “No fighting,” Steve said. “Everyone plate up and we’ll pick a movie.”

Tony scoffed. He and Vision stayed where they were, Vision because the synthezoid doesn’t eat, and Tony because spicy food honestly sounded like some kind of hell right now. Instead, he picked up the tablet Steve had set down next to him and pulled up some investment briefing packet he'd gotten from Pepper the day before. He’d have to take a trip to Japan soon if this partnership is going to move forward, might as well be reading up.

And then people were back and talking but they had strong smelling food, too. Tony blinked at his screen. He was reading the words, and some level of his brain was retaining information, but he felt a little like he was floating.

“Here,” Steve said from above him, around him, his voice almost echoing. Tony realized that Steve was standing by the arm of the couch and that he was putting a plate of Indian food right by his elbow, right under his nose, right in his face.

“No, thanks,” he said, blinking at the food, then at Steve.

“You should eat something,” Steve told him.

“Maybe,” Tony told him. Steve gave up and sat in the chair right next to Tony’s couch. The plate of food stayed where it was, and Tony’s headache notched up. The movie started up, then, and Tony learned that Wanda picked this time. He relaxed a tiny bit, the half-formed fear of action movie explosions falling away. People chatted lowly through the previews, and the movie itself had a muted color scheme and soft-spoken characters, but that was about all he could tell. He fazed out of reality for a little while, carried on an overpowering wave of sensation and sensory input that wouldn't let him breathe properly.

He stayed more or less like that until a shrill, heart-wrenching scream came from the stupidly realistic surround sound, louder than the entire movie had been thus far, and Tony thought, nonsensically, oh man, this is it, time to die. Everything pushed at him at once, every sound, the lights of the television, the small amount from the window even though it was night, the noise of breathing, the atmospheric pressure of people breathing around him, shifting, the magnetic fields of electronics and humming of lights, all of it pulsed harshly like a sledgehammer to his skull, his bones, his brain. He knew he had to be imagining about half of that shit, too, but he felt, just…everything all at once, so much, too much, everything—

It was a hand on his shoulder that broke Tony free from the feedback loop in his head. He fell away from the sensation and smacked the back of his neck on what must’ve been Vision’s rock hard shoulder.

“Tony?” And Steve sounded anxious, but at least he wasn’t disappointed, and holy shit, would Tony ever stop caring about what Steve thought of him? The tablet from earlier slid off Tony’s legs, and Tony got the urge to rip his pants off, rip his skin off, muscle, down to bone, just to make it all go away because he was feeling so much. “Hey, Tony.”

He groaned in response, fully aware that he sounded like a wounded animal, and he kind of hated himself for it. 

“Steve, back off,” Sam said, voice low and insistent. Tony swore he was going to rip them apart too if they didn't knock it off. The air shifted in front of him then, and Tony thought _trapped_ on top of it all. “Tony, open your eyes.”

“Nope,” Tony said, clipped, only then realizing that his eyes were, in fact, closed.

“Look, Tones,” he said and, hey, he must’ve gotten that from Rhodey. It was enough of a shock that it freed Tony’s brain up the smallest bit. He took a breath. “There ya go. Whatever it is you’re seeing—”

And shit, right. Tony though of how he must look from the outside and rushed to stop that in its tracks.

“S’not,” he slurred. Anger and frustration ripped through him at that and he bit his tongue, hard. He thought it might be bleeding, but he was rewarded with the clarity of pain for about .2 seconds. “Not that,” he tried again. Talking was hard. Finding his goddamn mouth through the mess of neurons was hard. Sam paused. The air in front of him shifted again. Tony opened his eyes and it was Natasha in front of him.

“Your mouth’s bleeding,” she told him quietly, even toned. “It’s going to get all over your favorite shirt.”

And then her hand was moving and she had a rough-looking paper towel, and if that touched his skin Tony thought he might have to set himself on fire to get rid of the sensation, but she was already there, and it rested against his chin. Tony flinched pretty violently and the paper towel got dropped onto his t-shirt, scraped across the material like a live wire. He groaned again as the paper towel fell to the ground and folded himself in half, head against his knees and fingers in his hair.

“Tony,” Natasha said, sounding almost panicked this time, “what’s wrong?”

“Too much,” he ground out. “Th’s too much.”

“Okay,” Steve said quietly but firmly. “Everyone out.”

Nobody so much as breathed on their way out, but Tony could feel the movement all around, hear the fabric against the furniture, the creaking of joints, the whir of Bucky’s arm as he levered himself up. He waited a little desperately for it to end, glad for Steve. Then there was cloth, soft cloth, being settled around him, over him.

“Tony.” And of course Steve hadn’t left, even when he told everyone else to. Of course he was still there, and that was his hoodie around Tony’s shoulders, wasn’t it, the hood pulled up over his head. “Okay?”

“‘Kay,” he said, and some of the tension bled out of him. He felt drunk without the buzz. Just out of his element and sloppy and embarrassing. Steve settled his hand on the back of Tony’s neck and squeezed, just enough pressure to be comforting and grounding.

“FRIDAY wants to know if you want the blanket from your workshop. The heavy one.”

“How d’you know?”

“She texted me.” Tony could almost hear the smile in Steve’s voice.

“Yes,” Tony sighed.

“Can I move you?”

“Sure,” Tony said, too tired to put up a fight.

Steve maneuvered Tony until he was sitting up with firm touches, not tickling, ghosting touches, and Tony was glad he didn’t have to walk Steve through this. He didn’t have the verbal capacity for it at the moment. They ended up in Steve’s chair with Steve sitting and Tony in his lap, one knee on each side of Steve’s hips, which in any other situation would’ve been Tony’s every teenage fantasy come to life, but as it was his face was smushed into Steve’s neck, the hood pulled up protectively over his hair, his fingers in Steve’s hair, and Steve’s fingers on his back.

“What else can I do?” Steve asked, voice rumbling all around Tony, breath ghosting over the top of his hood, sound close to his ear. It was easier to focus on the one thing when it took up all of the sensory space. Tony was grateful.

“The food,” he said in response. Steve pressed his hand more firmly into Tony’s spine.

“What about it?” he prompted.

“Make it go away.”

Steve hummed and it took over Tony’s senses again. He snuggled into the man. He was aware enough to notice when Natasha arrived, draping his blanket over the both of them. She took the plate of food and disposed of it and then sat in Tony’s spot on the couch.

“We okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Steve said softly. “Just…overload, or something.”

“Alright,” she said, easily enough.

“Just a few, ’kay?” Tony said. Steve and Natasha, surprised he was awake, or listening, or something, paused.

“Just a few what?” Steve asked, the words accompanied by the press of his hands into Tony’s shoulder blades.

“Minutes,” Tony said. “And then…team night. We can resume our regularly scheduled broadcast.” He was maybe a little ridiculously proud of himself for that sentence. Long, not literal. He thought he might’ve freaked the team out, but this overload, or something, was something Tony knew like the back of his hand. His bounce-back time was pretty remarkable. It was all just a trick of being careful so he didn’t trigger it again.

“Okay,” Natasha said. “We can just be quiet. Talk a little?” Tony hummed at her. He’d been having a good time before things got excessive. Maybe she’d noticed.

“No more loud movies or smelly food tonight,” Steve agreed.

“Sorry,” Tony said.

“Not your fault,” Natasha told him. “I’m going to go, but tell FRIDAY when we can come back in.”

“’Kay.”

Tony had absolutely no idea how long they sat there like that. His perception of time was tentative on the best of days, and he was twisted in knots tonight. Maybe he nodded off for a couple minutes. One moment his head was radiating pain, and the next it'd ebbed considerably. He shifted, just a stretch of muscles, and he felt raw, but not like his body and brain were screaming.

“Okay,” Tony said eventually.

“Okay, you’re still alive, or okay, people can come back now?” Steve sounded like he was smiling again.

“The second one.”

“Alright.”

Tony was aware enough this time that he noticed when Steve picked up his phone and typed out a message. He could’ve probably just asked FRIDAY, but Tony strangely appreciated the thought.

People started filing in then, quietly, like they were afraid to spook him, and Tony realized two things with a jolt: 1) this was the most vulnerable he’d been around the Avengers in a while, definitely since they regrouped from the civil war, and 2) he was embarrassed, bordering on humiliated, and it was lurking just under the surface, getting closer now that he was pretty sure he wasn’t going to die in the immediate future. Oh well, he told himself sternly. Shy wasn’t a good look on him.

He had a third realization too, that he was still being effectively cradled by Steve, but at that point it was more of a resigned feeling than a jolt. When he shifted again, Steve loosened his grip so Tony could move, and he only twisted around so he was half sitting on Steve and half sitting next to him on the chair and facing forward. He squinted immediately.

“Bring the lights down 5%, Fri,” Tony said. It happened without comment. When he could see again, he noticed that most everyone had taken their original seats back.

Vision and Wanda made a platter with cheese and crackers after Natasha explained what she thought was going on. Steve took a small plate of a bunch of different things and Tony admitted that, yeah, he was pretty hungry, so he started picking at it. Sam and Bucky resumed their Backgammon showdown and Clint called winner. It turned into a tournament from there. It was competitive, but nobody got too crazy. Tony stayed on the chair with Steve where they rearranged to drape the blanket over the both of them, and on the edges of the conversation, adding something every now and then.

He must’ve fallen asleep at some point because the next thing he knew, there were fingers combing through his hair (which was frankly gross with dried sweat) and a soft voice in his ear.

“C’mon,” Steve said, and Tony leaned into his touch.

“No,” he said. He could feel Steve laughing up against him.

“Yes,” Steve said, and then Tony could hear the laughter in his voice, all bright and happy. The great Captain America was struggling to keep his voice even and Tony felt like he’d won a prize. “You can’t sleep on the chair all night, you’ll hurt your neck.”

“Yeah,” Tony admitted, and he struggled to sit up on his own, but this chair really wasn’t meant for two people. He really must’ve been out; the rest of the team was already gone. “Sorry about decimating team night. I tried.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, nobody’s blaming you for that,” Steve said. “What was it, though?”

“You know what that was.” Tony raised an eyebrow and Steve looked like he had half a lemon in his mouth.

“Yeah, I do. But everything has a new name these days. What do you call it now?”

“Debatable.” Tony stood, stretched. He felt more like himself than he had all night. “Technically it’s Sensory Processing Disorder, and it’s often a symptom of something else. In casual conversation you can just call it being overwhelmed or sensory overload.”

Steve nodded, eyes wandering and expression thoughtful. Tony made his way into the kitchen and Steve followed. Steve ended up leaning against the counter while Tony rummaged idly through the fridge. Hot chocolate sounded good but also like a lot of work. He also knew from experience that if he didn’t eat something sugary now he’d feel hungover in the morning.

“Happened to me a lot right after Rebirth,” Steve said eventually. “One of the only physical downsides to the serum.” Tony picked up a banana from the bowl behind Steve and started to peel it. “Really thought I was dying the first time, like maybe my senses would keep enhancing right up until they killed me.”

Tony settled next to Steve, hips against the counter behind him so they were both facing the same way, watching the closed refrigerator as Tony started to eat, all while beating down the feeling of wrongness at having shown vulnerability to Steve, to Rogers, to this guy he swore he wouldn’t let beneath his armor ever again.

“It happened a lot more when I was a teenager,” Tony said to the stainless steel face of the fridge door. He drew a deep breath and felt like an idiot. He’d been clinging to Steve just hours ago, thoughtlessly trusting, vulnerable as can be. This was nothing. (But this isn’t necessary, his mind whispered, he could stop any time, this is like giving Steve extra ammunition on a silver platter and he would regret it. He derailed that train of thought before it could go any further because he knew, he _knew_ it wasn’t true.) “My mind runs a hundred miles a minute and it takes in enough data from the world to actually do that, but when I get tired and the processing power’s a little off, the data just keeps pouring in sometimes and—”

“Yeah,” Steve said, and Tony heard the fondness in his voice, but he was too grateful that Steve put him out of his misery there that he didn’t hardly resent him for it. Steve shifted, then. “Sorry,” he said quickly when he accidentally jabbed into Tony’s side. Tony saw Steve’s shoulders roll back and braced himself. “I’m sorry if I—I didn’t mean to take any liberties earlier when you were—Tony.”

“Steve.” And Tony wasn’t smiling, but it sounded like he was anyway. Steve heaved a sigh and his shoulders drooped. Tony sent a prayer of thanks to Odin. He wasn’t in the mood for Steve-Rogers-gearin’-up-for-a-fight.

“I played it by ear earlier,” Steve admitted, “but I’m sorry if I…guessed wrong, at any turn. If I did anything you weren’t comfortable with, I won’t do it again.”

Tony wanted to bash Steve’s teeth in for making his chest ache like this, and he was reminded of why he worked so hard to get pardons for all of these idiots. There was no one he’d rather have at his back, by his side, than Captain America. 

“Steve?” Tony asked.

“Yeah?” Steve whispered.

“Thanks, for helping me out tonight, and not trying to pry instructions out of me. I was a little,” he waved his hand vaguely, “gone, for that.”

There was a beat of silence where Tony resolutely stared ahead.

“Anytime.” And of course it sounded like a vow coming from Steve Rogers’ lips. It wasn’t, Tony told himself fiercely. Steve was a person, and he spoke in words, not vows; this had been a problem for them before.

One of their major issues, Tony’s found, was that Steve takes everything at face value, takes all of Tony’s words to heart, and Tony sees subtext that isn’t always there.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Tony forced out, thinking _say the words you mean, idiot._ “I trust you—I’m trying to trust you, but the point is that at the moment, it didn’t occur to me that I maybe shouldn’t. So.” In through the nose, out through the mouth. He tossed the banana peel into the trash can. “A step in the right direction.”

Steve was quiet for so long that Tony swallowed his pride and glanced over. Even in the low light, Steve’s eyes were shining, steely blue as the man himself stared at the spot where the wall met the ceiling.

“Oh, don’t give me those eyes, Cap,” Tony said. “I’m trying to be—whatever, reassuring, here. If you start crying your fairy godmother’s gonna show up and give me the disappointed look and I am too tired for this nonsense, Rogers, cut me some slack.”

Steve laughed and shook his head helplessly. “Thanks, Tony.”

Tony choked on his own laugh for that. “What on earth for?”

Steve bumped into him again, but didn’t move away, didn’t stutter through an apology. His index finger arched to brush the back of Tony’s wrist. Tony stared at it, too afraid to look up at Steve himself.

“Everything.” Steve’s hand moved so that two of his fingers rested against Tony’s pulse point for the barest of moments, and then he was walking away. “Goodnight.”

“Night,” Tony heard himself call, still staring down at his own hand.

“And Tony?” Steve said, pivoting in the doorway and leaning against the frame. Tony looked up, quirked an eyebrow. “Next time you’re feeling on edge and I demand you come upstairs for bonding time, just tell me, you stubborn fool.” But he was smiling, so Tony grinned too. The strange moment had passed and it didn’t bring the world crashing down around them. All it did was supercharge Steve’s words, his care, his teasing affection.

“Oh, look who’s talking,” he shot back, easy as ever.

Steve’s smile widened, and then he was gone.

Tony stared after him for a long time before he finally made it to his own bed.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this](http://batterology.tumblr.com/post/155490224010/spd-tony-stark-who-cant-focus-with-the-visual) tumblr post.


End file.
